JAMIE SUE AUSTIN

another mug shot 
to hang on my wall
in the place where
a family photo
should be.

jerk. 

Words,
enigmatic building blocks,
arbitrary relational signs,
designate the flower
not a tulip, not a daisy,
but create the rose from
thought and sound. 

i once had this dream
that you backslid
through my front door
Henna-Red and smiling
—beaming
bright and White
like laughter —
sometimes i wonder
if i dreamed it
or just remembered
a happier you 

because in my last days,
when people gather to say
last words,
or make last amends, 
bring cake and pie,
or don’t visit at all
because my grievances
were too great…
I want everyone 
to reflect on the most
simple fact of my life.
I hated bugs.
So, don’t bury me in the
ground, if you remember
me at all.
Unless you hated me,
then I implore you
to remember that 
cremating
my corpse is
cheaper and caskets
are expensive revenge. 

Come over here
and sell me a bottle
of your best miracle-hope-for-a-cure,
that makes me
peppy in the morning
pretty like Donna Reed  
all my hairs in place
none on my legs
blush painted perfectly
to match my lips
healthy and happy
smiling Crest white
not a pain in the hip or a
wring in the hand,
not a chore un done
or a worry on the brow,
just one bottle of perfect-all-day,
fresh mint flavor please
I’ve got cash. 

I’m back,
as if they ever left
the microbes crushed
under their feet
their sweat evaporated
and mingling with
the atmosphere
the carbon in their
bones
still leaching into
the water table…
No, we never really
leave. 
I never ever left. 

folk is funny in dey ways
wuther its in how dey point
der shoes to da wall
or how dey
hang a waist
or save a dish
or how dey cool it
for tha icebox
tha sauce on da fish
da riaght way
to fry a tater
don’t matter wur
dey from
folk is funny
in dey ways 

I lit a cigarette,
from a candle
in haste
and was
immediately struck
by an Appalachian fear—
a piece of Lithuanian past
reached up to save
a sailor
from death—
and formed my hands
in imitation
of a priest,
but a bit more
Orleans Voodoo, —
to cross
the candle
three times…  and
save sailor my
disrespect
We have become—
all of us—
so many people
in this place. 

Let’s talk BRAND IDENTITY here,
I mean everydayjoe and his coffeecup
BOTH knowing your name.
Let’s talk scailablility, can you take
this persona to the next level? 
Is Jamie Sue Austin going to be the
next Jamie Sue Austin to do what ever
it is that she does best?
You know, that stuff you do, that
people like and remember you for,
what ever it is…
Those are the kind of things you
gotta ask yourself, chica, before
you come here to play with big boys.
Are you a sheep or are you a shark? 

I know you birthed me 
in the blue clay of Kentucky
hoping I’d take stubborn
root and grow
hard for future winters,
but I’m not a cedar
or a pine, or a pluck
of white burley—
but a little white
clay sipping butterfly
flitting off to bright
colors in foreign
gardens looking
for cool drinks
of blue clay 
elsewhere
in the world. 

and it was too grand for me?
Or if it didn’t suit my fancy,
being suited for a particular task
and having no interest.
What if my purpose commanded
humility to such a degree
I could not bend the reed 
to yield to it.  
No, I don’t think
I’ll let omnipresent powers
choose my purpose.
I have been built fine and
flexible, vain and brilliant,
I should choose
my own purpose.
Not to fill the universal wish
list, but to bring
the unexpected gift.